


the ups and downs (to you)

by calciseptine



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anxiety, Beach Volleyball, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-22 23:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to shake the crushing shame of defeat when Aoba Jousai fails to go to nationals his senior year, Oikawa flees as far south as possible for university. He tries to distract himself with his academic studies and empty social life, hoping that he can cleanly divide his future from his past. This careful balancing act is thrown into disarray, however, when he runs into Iwaizumi, a long lost childhood friend who won't let Oikawa forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So one day, I was like, I really really _really_ want to write something for these two dumb butts. Five seconds later, my brain goes, "WHAT IF THEY DIDN'T GROW UP TOGETHER? WHAT IF OIKAWA DIDN'T HAVE SOMEONE TO KEEP HIM GROUNDED? HOW WOULD OIKAWA DEAL WITH NEVER GOING TO NATIONALS?" Then, amidst this angst, my brain screams, "BARA IWA-CHAN AND SUMMER LOVE AND BEACH VOLLEYBALL, GO."
> 
> Yeah, I'm not sure how my brain works either. :|
> 
> The title of this story from _Shine_ by Night Riots. I pretty much listened to their EP, _Howl_ , the entire time I was writing this. LISTEN TO IT AND LET IT CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

The morning Oikawa leaves Sendai is uncharacteristically brisk for early April, and as he hugs his mother and father goodbye on the busy platform, Oikawa is grateful for the warmth his light coat provides.

"Call us when you get to Hamada," his mother says for the hundredth time.

"And don't forget to thank Irihata-san," says his father, also for the hundredth time.

"I will," Oikawa promises them both. Then he picks up his bags—the reliable backpack he had throughout middle school and high school, and the large duffel bag he used when he was in volleyball—and boards the Tohoku line towards Tokyo. He claims the window seat and presses his forehead against the cold glass; he closes his eyes and sighs, and tries to relax.

It takes eleven hours and three changeovers for Oikawa to travel from the capital of Sendai in Miyagi to the city of Hamada in Shimane. He spends most of the train ride staring out the window at the landscape as it speeds by; the meticulous cities built of concrete and steel bleed into the budding greenery of awakening forests while the blurry, glaucous mountains remain fixed on the horizon. This scenery is not something Oikawa is unfamiliar with—he traveled a lot for volleyball training and tournaments—but it distracts him nonetheless. When he grows tired of doing that, he tries to read the book opened on his lap, but he has little interest in it and dozes instead. In the late afternoon when he reaches his final destination, Oikawa is groggy despite being inactive all day and taking frequent naps.

Hamada Station is less crowded than the other stations along Oikawa's route, and no one jostles him as he unboards. He sets his luggage on an empty bench and removes his coat; it is much warmer in Hamada than it was in Sendai. Then, after Oikawa makes a quick call to his worried parents, he punches in his new address into the GPS on his phone.

_Three kilometers,_ Oikawa reads as he rolls his neck, the cervical vertebrae cracking in temporary relief. The train seats were comfortable enough, but sitting so long has left him stiff. He decides to walk; volleyball may have ended several months ago, but Oikawa has always been active, and runs almost twice that distance frequently. His bags aren't heavy, either, and the sun feels good on his face.

It takes Oikawa more than an hour to walk from Hamada Station to the apartment, if only because his stomach makes itself known after twenty minutes of walking, growling so loudly that the person in front of Oikawa looks over their shoulder in surprise. He swings into a convenience store to buy a sandwich and an iced tea to wash it down; he leans against an office building as he eats, before dusting the crumbs from his long sleeved shirt and continuing. It is just past six in the evening when he reaches his destination, his phone signaling his arrival with a cheerful tintinnabulation.

The complex in front of Oikawa is smaller than the complexes he is familiar with, though this is unsurprising, as the population of Hamada is half that of Sendai. It runs parallel to the street and is only two stories, with four apartments on the ground floor and five on the top. The property is fenced in by a shoulder high wall, much like a house would be, yet when Oikawa tests the front gate, it is unlatched.

Beyond the gate, there's a decent sized walkway that leads to the complex, and it bisects long, narrow swatch of well-kept green grass. A gnarled oak tree dominates the right side of the lawn and trimmed cypress bushes mark the border between the greenery and the complex. It isn't extravagant by any stretch of the imagination, but it's more impressive than the minuscule yard in front of Oikawa's childhood home. 

Finding the landlord's apartment is easy. All the doors have been recently painted a pristine white to match the gray concrete and steel of the building, and the plaques attached to the doors are printed with the resident's surname rather than numbers. His landlord, Irihata Nobuteru, is the last door on the right side of the complex. A long-haired cat watches him warily from the window as he knocks on the door.

"Coming!" a gruff voice calls, muffled through the heavy metal door. Belatedly, Oikawa wonders if he should have called his landlord before knocking; Oikawa had spoken to Irihata several days ago to confirm that he would arrive today, but it occurs to him that he never gave Irihata a time other than "in the evening". Yet before Oikawa can worry about it too much, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a rounded beer belly answers the door. He looks stern with his thick eyebrows and lined face, but that austerity vanishes when he smiles and claps Oikawa on the shoulder.

"Ah, you must be Tooru-kun," he says. "It's nice to finally meet you face to face."

The knot of anxiety that has been residing in Oikawa's chest since that morning loosens in his chest. Oikawa's parents had been very specific about how polite he was supposed to be towards his new landlord, and the sudden reality of it is much less stressful than what his parents—and he himself—had built it up to. He gives a short bow and says, "You as well, Irihata-san."

"You can set your things down here," Irihata says, gesturing Oikawa inside. "I have everything ready for you. We just have to go over a few things, and after that, I can give you your keys and you can get settled in. You look dead on your feet; I'm sure you don't want to listen to an old man go on while you're tired."

A genuine smile tugs the corners of Oikawa's lips. He has spoken to Irihata several times over the phone and liked his brisk manner of speaking; Oikawa finds he likes it even more in person. He follows Irihata into kitchen and sits down in a wooden chair across from him.

True to his word, Irihata goes over the rental agreement quickly and efficiently, pointing out what he is responsible for, what the complex is responsible for, and a variety of other things, such as notice of leave, accessibility rights, and quiet hours. None of it is new to Oikawa, and the five-page document is not as overwhelming as it originally had been, as his parents had helped him pick out a place to live and gone over the rental agreement several times before they committed. Still, Oikawa signs and dates the important parts of the document somewhat dazedly; he graduated high school six days ago, and now he is responsible for an apartment.

Irihata double checks everything before getting up to file it. When he returns a minute later, he has a keyring in hand. 

"I have the spare in case you lose yours or I need to get into your apartment," Irihata explains as he pops one of the two keys off the ring and hands it to Oikawa. "I wouldn't recommend losing it. Replacing the locks is never fun and never cheap."

After Oikawa sticks the key in his back jean pocket, Irihata has him grab his bags and leads him up to the second floor. Oikawa's apartment is the second door from the left and, unlike the other residencies, there is no plaque with his name on it. Irihata explains its absence as he unlocks the apartment and flips a light switch in the foyer.

"I'll have to go get one made on Saturday when I don't have any classes." Vaguely, Oikawa remembers Irihata mentioning that he was a high school history teacher in addition to a landlord. "A friend of mine works at the place I get them, so I get a good discount." 

Despite seeing several photos and a floor plan online, Oikawa finds himself greedily drinking in the sight of his new home. The entryway is lowered and wide enough so Oikawa won't trip over his (admittedly large) collection of shoes when he comes and goes. The main floor is a wood veneer the color of warm honey and the walls are painted a very light cream. The small kitchen is to his left—he has a refrigerator, an oven, and a garbage disposal—and the side facing the living area is open, so Oikawa can sit at the counter to eat. The living room itself is bigger than it looked online; he will be able to fit a couch and a television, with enough space between the two for his futon. The window on the far wall is a decent size, and will let a lot of natural light in during the mornings and early afternoons.

"This complex used to be a small warehouse before it was converted, so the walls are pretty thick," Irihata explains as Oikawa wanders through the galley kitchen, opening and closing the plain oak cabinets. "That's why the ceilings are so high, too. My only complaint is that it can be drafty in the winter, but you won't have to worry about getting a space heater until October, November at the latest."

On right hand side of the apartment is large storage closet—which his parents had said would be very useful in keeping his space uncluttered—and the bathroom, which is just large enough for the toilet, a small sink, and a shower. It's much smaller than the bathroom he is used to, but is still bigger than the bathrooms he used at hotels, when the volleyball team had to stay a night in some far off place.

"Are you going to be alright for tonight?" Irihata asks as Oikawa opens the shower door, peering up at shower head. It's not much bigger than Oikawa's fist, but hopefully the water pressure makes up for it. "If you need a futon, I have a few spares in my closet."

"No thank you," Oikawa says, shutting the door and stepping back into the living room, where Irihata is eyeballing his duffel bag and backpack with skepticism. "I have a sleeping bag with me. I'm going shopping for everything tomorrow, so please don't trouble yourself."

"If you're sure," Irihata says, finally pulling his gaze away from Oikawa's duffel. "It must be nice to be young. When you get to be my age, a night on the floor would cause permanent damage."

Before Irihata leaves, he gives Oikawa the number for emergency maintenance and reiterates that if Oikawa has any questions, he can visit any time. Then he bids Oikawa goodnight, and shuts the heavy apartment door gently behind him.

With Irihata gone, the apartment is oddly still and quiet, and Oikawa finds himself instantly unsettled by it. He is an only child and had grown up in respectably sized two story home, but locking himself inside his bedroom is far different than being alone in his apartment. It strikes Oikawa, as it has not before, that he's completely alone in a city a thousand miles away from everyone and everything he's ever known. It had been his goal to go to a place where no one would know him—or know his failures—but it had not occurred to him that this also meant that he would know no one either.

"Well shit," Oikawa laughs, his voice eerie in the silence. "Mission accomplished, I guess."


	2. Chapter 2

Oikawa wakes up early the next morning, the alarm on his phone chirping merrily despite the darkness that lingers beyond the cracked blinds. Oikawa knows that he could sleep in; he has no obligations right now—no school, no job, no extracurricular activities—but while the thought of more sleep is tempting, he is a reluctant creature of habit. So he crawls out of his warm sleeping bag and shuffles to the shower, where he stands underneath the lukewarm spray until he's fully cognizant.

Once he's finished his morning routine and is dressed, Oikawa ventures out of his apartment and into the unfamiliar city of Hamada. His complex is located on the edge of a suburban area that bleeds into a more commercial part of town, a fact that Oikawa is supremely grateful for when he grabs breakfast at a familiar chain less than three blocks away.

The rest of Oikawa's day is spent visiting various shops and hauling his purchases back to his apartment. His parents are going to mail him the clothes he left behind as well as his game console, but everything else—the furniture, the cookware, dishes, and utensils, the groceries, and the cleaning supplies—are items that he has to purchase. Thankfully, his parents (and other family members) had given him enough money when he graduated high school that he can afford everything he needs, as well as a particularly squishy couch and a medium-sized flat screen television.

He still cringes when he checks his bank account after he pays for his futon.

The sun is a wash of crimson and violet on the horizon by the time Oikawa hauls a week's worth of food up to his apartment. Again, he finds the stillness and quiet of his apartment unsettling, so he puts his laptop on the kitchen counter and turns up the volume on an older playlist with an upbeat feel. It was given to him by one of his many girlfriends; music was a popular gift given to him by the people he dated, as he never had the time to listen to or search for music when he played volleyball. Maybe now, without volleyball consuming his life, he can find out what he really likes and what he doesn't.

After the groceries have been put away and he's cleaned the small set of plain ceramic plates and bowls he bought, Oikawa makes a cup of instant ramen. He never cooked for himself when he lived at home—he was always too busy—so learning how to use his new, tiny rice cooker is high on his list of priorities.

_Another thing to worry about,_ Oikawa thinks, though in truth he isn't all that worried. Most things come to him with practice and, if there's one thing Oikawa excels at, it's practice. _What next?_

.

Oikawa's couch, entertainment console, and futon are delivered at the same time the next day, and for fifteen minutes it's a mad shuffle of too many people struggling to get the furniture up a flight of stairs and through the door. When the deliverymen leave, Oikawa sinks into the couch with a sigh. The couch had cost more than he originally expected to pay, but he had fallen in love with the plush cushions and soft cream colored fabric. All in all, it was money well spent.

With the furniture delivered, and a majority of Oikawa's belongings and purchases put away, Oikawa has one thing left on his to do list before university starts: find a job.

When Oikawa graduated middle school, he immediately got a job working as a waiter for a small café not far from his house. (Girls had begun to show serious interest in him around this time, and dates required more money than he received as allowance from his parents.) Back then, Oikawa had only worked Sundays—tournaments and training for volleyball were typically during the week or on Saturdays—and had liked it well enough. He hopes that he can find something similar.

The search for part time jobs online is fruitless, as most of the places offering are too far away. He wants to find a job within walking distance of his apartment since he does not have a bicycle and does not like being at the mercy of public transportation. So after several hours of increasingly frustrating internet surfing, Oikawa decides to walk around the area and hunt for HELP WANTED signs hung up in door and shop windows. A lot of small businesses in Sendai had not advertised online and instead relied on more old-fashioned means of attracting new hires. Oikawa hopes that the market in Hamada is the same.

Unfortunately, after several days of searching, Oikawa has not found any café or restaurant that was hiring part-time evening hosts. He had picked up a few applications at other businesses—a grocery, several convenience stores, and a magazine stall—and decides to try for the convenience store closest to his apartment.

The store is empty of customers when Oikawa goes to drop off his application, but there is an employee in his early thirties reading a magazine behind the cash register. He greets Oikawa readily when Oikawa opens the door, a computerized chime sounding faintly from the back end of the store.

"Welcome," the man says as he stands. His light brown hair looks copper underneath the artificial lights and his gaze is straightforward and serious. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if the manager was available?" Oikawa asks, pasting on his friendliest smile as he takes his application out of his satchel. The corner is bent despite Oikawa's best efforts. "I was wondering about the open clerk position."

"So you're the one who came in a few days ago. Matsukawa told me about you." The man reaches out for the application. "I'm the manager, Mizoguchi Sadayuki."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Oikawa replies politely, taking care to bow properly as he does so. "I am Oikawa Tooru."

"Nice to meet you too, Oikawa. Matsukawa said you were looking for a part time?" Mizoguchi asks, glancing briefly at the front and back of the small application before setting it down on the counter.

"Yes," Oikawa replies with a nod. "I start university on the first, but all of my classes are in the morning. I will have a lab in the afternoon on Thursdays, but otherwise my schedule is free."

Mizoguchi hums in acknowledgement even as his sharp eyes run over Oikawa from head to toe, taking in his clean hightop sneakers, darkly dyed skinny jeans, and loose, wide-collared sweater. After several moments of this scrutinization, Mizoguchi must judge Oikawa to be adequate, because he asks several other basic questions—such as the maximum and minimum number of hours Oikawa wants to work and what Oikawa's favorite thing about his previous job was—as well as seemingly random questions, like what he thought of baseball and his opinion on a certain brand of soda. Oikawa remembers his first interview being much more formal than the back and forth he maintains with Mizoguchi, which runs more like a conversation.

"Well, you can certainly think on your feet," Mizoguchi tells Oikawa after twenty minutes of odd question after odd question. "And you're friendly, which is important since a majority of our client base is elderly people who want to chat more than they want what they came for. If I hired you, when is the earliest you can start?"

"Right now," Oikawa replies.

"If only paperwork were that easy," Mizoguchi grumbles. "Tell you what. I'll get everything sorted out on my end and I'll call you tomorrow or the day after." He looks down at Oikawa's application again, reviewing Oikawa's personal information, and taps a knuckle against the paper. "Is this your cell phone number?"

Oikawa nods.

"Good. Once I get all the paperwork done, I'll have you come in and we'll go over your duties in detail. We don't have a uniform other than the apron—" Mizoguchi gestures to his teal apron with a cresting wave embroidered in white on the breast, "—but don't wear anything that might scare the clientele away from my shop."

"Sounds good to me," Oikawa says with a smile. He's no stranger to uniforms—he had to wear dress shoes, button downs, and ironed slacks for his high school job—but like most people, he prefers and feels more comfortable in his street clothes. "No wild hair colors or t-shirts with offensive logos. Anything else?"

"Just one thing," Mizoguchi says, a lopsided but warm smile spreading across his otherwise austere face. "Welcome aboard."

.

Oikawa is making himself an early lunch when Mizoguchi calls back, two days after their impromptu interview. The plain rice that he spoons out of his rice cooker is slightly burnt on the bottom, but Oikawa considers this a victory after the disaster his first attempt was.

"You're old boss gave you a glowing recommendation," Mizoguchi says. "She said that you were one of the hardest workers she's ever had, despite being busy with high school and volleyball."

Oikawa, who had cracked an egg and began to mix it in with his rice, freezes. He can feel his stomach sinking as he imagines what might come out of Mizoguchi's mouth next. Will he ask Oikawa if he's planning on joining the volleyball club when he starts college? And if he does, and Oikawa says no, will he ask about why one of the best players in the Miyagi prefecture suddenly stopped playing the sport he excelled at?

"—start tomorrow morning?" Mizoguchi continues, oblivious to Oikawa's anxiety. "I have a large delivery coming in and it would be a good time to show you how to take inventory and stock the store."

The sudden knot of anxiety that fell like a stone into the pit of Oikawa's stomach loosens, and Oikawa forces himself to inhale deeply before he replies. "Yessir," he quips as he resumes mixing his uncomplicated meal. It's easier to focus on his food than it is the unchangeable past. "I'm looking forward to it."

Oikawa never thought he would be as eager as he is to start working, but after a week of doing virtually nothing besides going on the internet, playing video games, and marathoning television shows he didn't have time for in high school, Oikawa is ready to climb out his own skin from boredom. He is accustomed to a much more hectic lifestyle and he finds that he misses it. Besides, all this free time makes it easy for Oikawa to think about his last game at regionals—about what he did wrong and what he could have done better—and if there's one thing Oikawa does not want to think about, it's that.

Working at the convenience store lets Oikawa focus on menial labor rather than volleyball, and Mizoguchi is more than happy to let Oikawa work as much as he wants before university starts. Almost every day for two weeks, Oikawa comes just after lunch and leaves when the shop closes at ten. He spends the first half of his day working with Mizoguchi and the only other full time employee—Matsukawa Issei, a recent graduate the same age as Oikawa—and the second half working with Hanamaki Takahiro, who will be attending the same university as Oikawa. The other part time employees are local high school students, and Oikawa works with several of them for a handful on hours on the weekend.

Yet despite being able to keep himself busy at work, there's little Oikawa can do when he returns to his lonely apartment. There is little to clean in such a small and uncluttered space—Oikawa has always been very Spartan in the way of possessions, if one excluded his large wardrobe and shoe collection—and while he gets slowly better at cooking, most meals take him less than half an hour to make. Restlessness begins to build in the marrow of his bones and no matter what he does, it lingers.

_University,_ Oikawa thinks, _cannot start soon enough._  



	3. Chapter 3

University begins on a crisp and sunny spring day. In Sendai, the cherry blossoms would have been in full bloom and their subtle perfume would have permeated the air; in Hamada, the blooming season has long since passed, and the scent of the ocean is carried inland by a gentle breeze. To Oikawa, who grew up in a city in the mountains, the salty smell promises much: new beginnings, adventure, and the unknown.

"Have you never been?" Makki asks, somewhat incredulously, as he takes a large bite out of his vending machine sandwich. Makki works the part time evening shift with Oikawa, and when he had learned that they were both attending the same university—and that their schedules had lined up—Makki had insisted that they should spend their breaks together. "To the ocean, I mean."

"I went a couple of times when I was in elementary school," Oikawa replies. "The beach was a couple hours away, but it was too cold to swim unless you went in July or August."

"Weird," Makki mutters. "Everyone here practically lives at the beach once June hits. I guess some of the more hardcore surfers started going out in late March, but those guys have a hypothermic death wish." He scoffs. "I would rather _not_ freeze my balls off, thank you."

Oikawa shrugs—how is he supposed to tell Makki that he understands what it's like to be that dedicated to a sport, when even the mention of volleyball makes his voice stick in his throat?—and turns his attention to his own lunch: a toasted bagel with plain cream cheese and a generously sized cinnamon latte. Many incoming college students chose to go to Shimane University since Hamada was a popular beach town, and everyone Oikawa has met since he moved has assumed the same of Oikawa. He does not correct them and say that the real reason he came to Hamada was that it was as far away from Sendai as he could go; instead, he laughs, and says that he was tired of the long winters and cold mountains.

"I have a friend whose parents own a little beach house about an hour from here," Makki continues. "He, Issei, and I went to high school together and spent most of our summers in a cabin. Issei always forgot to put on enough sunscreen and was as red as a lobster for the first week."

Oikawa smiles as he mentally pictures Mattsun—one of the full-time day workers at the convenience store—with his familiar scowl and an unfamiliar sunburn. "That sounds like fun," Oikawa comments honestly.

"I'll text you next time we go. There's always room for one more."

Spending a day at the beach is something Oikawa never did in middle school or high school. He knows some of his peers spent their summer vacations lounging on the sand or swimming in the ocean, but summer vacations for Oikawa meant practice, practice, and more practice. He had not questioned his decision at the time—volleyball was more important than spending his idle hours beachside—but now, after all his training has amounted to nothing, he feels a dull throb of regret. Did he miss out on something important while he was uselessly repeating sets, spikes, and serves?

"Thanks, Makki-kun," Oikawa says a belated smile, forcing his negative feelings down and away. "I would like that."

When Mizoguchi had first introduced Oikawa to Makki—and to Mattsun—Oikawa had expected them to stay in the same, vague realm of polite friendliness that all Oikawa's previous coworkers had firmly resided. Yet while it had been easy for Oikawa to divide the people he knew in Sendai into clean, clear cut categories—teammates and classmates, coworkers and girlfriends and fans—it is difficult to keep Makki and Mattsun confined to one category. He likes Makki's sarcasm and he likes Mattsun's sly, deadpan humor; he can see himself becoming friends with them, something he hasn't been able to do since childhood without the aid of volleyball. It's terrifying, if Oikawa's being honest about it, as all he has to offer now is himself.

Oikawa and Makki finish their lunch quickly and spend the next hour chatting idly about what they're excited for and what they're dreading about their classes. Oikawa is majoring in applied mathematics—math has always been straight-forward and uncomplicated, which is what Oikawa likes about it—while Makki is undeclared, though he admits he will probably end up in business.

"Can you see me in a suit and tie?" Makki jokes. "I should have done what my friends did and skipped university, but my parents were adamant that I get a degree. No offense to you, but sitting behind a desk and looking at numbers all day would drive me insane."

They part ways fifteen minutes before noon, as they have different classes on opposites ends of campus. It's strange, because while none of their lectures are the same, their time tables are identical. They both have three classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at eight, nine, and noon; they both have two classes on Tuesday and Thursday, at nine-thirty and eleven; they both have a lab on Thursday afternoon at three; and they both have a two hour break before their last class, in which they have agreed to meet at the student center to grab food (Makki) or coffee (Oikawa). Oikawa has never been unsettled by crowds, nor been afraid of spending time by himself, but it's still nice to have at least one familiar face among thousands of strangers.

Oikawa's last class of the day is in an enormous lecture hall slowly filling with other freshman, so Oikawa picks a random open seat and pulls an empty notebook and ballpoint pen from his messenger bag. Some of the other students are chatting to each other but most people are waiting quietly for the lecture to begin. Many of them are either on their cellphone or laptop, but several are people watching. Oikawa joins in on the latter, and finds that a cluster of girls near him are sneaking unsubtle glances in his direction.

Their attention startles Oikawa into a smile, a thoughtless and inviting thing that he's perfected over the years. It's the same smile he used when girls approached him in high school. Back then, Oikawa had known what how to handle their confessions; now, Oikawa hesitates, and wonders what he would say to them if one of them came over.

Thankfully, the girls hide their giggles behind their delicate hands, none approaching him before the professor arrives and begins the lecture.

For the next hour, Oikawa's thoughts wander. Mostly he mulls over what dating will be like now that volleyball isn't the main focus of his life. He had dated a lot in high school—and enjoyed it okay—but none of his relationships had ever lasted for more than a couple months. He knew it was because he had always prioritized volleyball over spending time with his girlfriend. He had tried, early in his career, to skip a handful of optional Saturday practices to go on dates. Yet every time he did, he had been filled with restlessness and had ultimately been unable to focus his attention on anything but the practice he missed. Eventually he gave up and went to all offered practices; after this decision, the length of Oikawa's relationships were directly correlated to his girlfriend's patience.

Now, he doesn't have volleyball. There will be no morning practices, no afternoon practices, no weekend practices, no optional practices.

_What will dating be like without volleyball?_ Oikawa thinks as the professor drones on about the syllabus an aide passed down the aisles. Then, with a small amount of irritation, _Is this something else I have to figure out?_

Oikawa barely hears anything the professor says and stares at his printout without comprehending the text. Giving up on volleyball was supposed to make his life better, but all Oikawa seems to be doing is wondering how to live it.

Class ends ten minutes before one in the afternoon. Oikawa avoids the group of girls who had been whispering about him and walks as swiftly as possible out of the lecture hall, the urgent need to _get away_ building beneath his breastbone. His brisk pace doesn't stop even when he is safely off campus; in fact, instead of slowing down, Oikawa breaks into a light jog. He feels uncomfortable and jittery in his ill-fitting skin, a sensation that doesn't leave him when he makes it back to the relative safety of his apartment and has locked himself inside.

"Fuck," Oikawa swears, dropping his bag on the foyer floor and leaning back against the cold metal door. His right knee aches. His breath is short and irregular. Sweat gathers at his temples and his hairline. " _Fuck._ "

Oikawa hates the anxiety he feels building in his lungs. He hates how powerless he feels and how everything is out of his control. He thought that leaving Sendai would make his life easier, but there is nothing easy about having to learn that he knows nothing at all. Sure, he had known that he would have to teach himself how to cook and how to do laundry but he had never thought that he would be faced with the reality that, without volleyball, he doesn't know _himself_. He doesn't know what kind of music he likes; he doesn't know how to make genuine friends; he doesn't even know what he wants in a girlfriend. Those are things normal people are supposed to know, and here he is, completely clueless, because he sacrificed those things for a perfect jump serve that, in the end, made no difference.

It would be funny, Oikawa supposes, if it weren't so damn pathetic.

.

Oikawa sits by his apartment door for an eternity. He can barely breathe around all the small things that keep compounding, but he eventually manages to stop the fine tremble of his hands and focus his gaze on the grain of his wooden floor. When the roar of blood in his ears disappears, however, the silence presses down on him and threatens to choke him for a second time.

_Work,_ Oikawa thinks desperately as he fumbles for his cellphone. _I can go to work._

Oikawa lets out a weak groan when the digital clock confirms that he still has several hours to go before his shift starts. He had planned out a schedule with Mizoguchi that had him working Monday through Friday at the convenience store and—excluding Thursdays when he had lab—would give him five hours of free time between his last class and his shift. Being able to study for hours between lectures and work will be a luxury when Oikawa has classwork, but it still feels excessive to Oikawa, who is used to following a more rigorous, volleyball-dominated schedule. School had been secondary to sport and studying had been done late at night, when exhaustion from the long day tugged at him.

Yet since it is only the first day of classes, and no coursework _has_ been assigned to him, Oikawa finds himself at odds. He can't listen to music to fill the silence like he normally does without ruining his tenuous mood—as all his music was given to him by ex-girlfriends, and he doesn't want to parse out what he does and does not like—so he lurches to his feet and shuffles over to the television. He entertains the notion of watching a movie, but when he glances at his meager movie collection, he realizes that all of the DVDs were gifted to him. The same thing happens to him when he reviews his games and finds that they are all titles his classmates recommended.

It matters little that he enjoys watching certain movies or playing certain video games; what matters is that he chose nothing for himself.

Oikawa spends half an hour searching for something to distract him and becoming increasingly annoyed when nothing works, Oikawa gives up. Mizoguchi wasn't particular when Oikawa wanted to work overtime before university started—there's always something that needs to be done at the convenience store—so hopefully he won't mind that Oikawa is three hours early for his shift.

After all, it's not like Oikawa has anything better to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Thankfully, university picks up quickly, and by the end of the first week Oikawa has notes and practice sheets stacked in various places around his apartment. He has never been particularly good (nor particularly bad) at studying, but the need to distract himself and the motivation of pressure have put him ahead of schedule in all his subjects.

Outside of academics, Oikawa spends the rest of his time at work. He likes the easy repetitiveness of stocking, cleaning, and organizing. He can always find something to do, even if Makki jokingly starts to call him an overachiever.

"Mizoguchi-san already likes you best," Makki tells Oikawa. "Here for a month, and you've even kicked Yahaba-kun to the curb." Yahaba is one of the part-timers, a high school senior who Mizoguchi trusts enough to open the store on Sundays. "I would watch out for him—he's quiet because he's plotting."

"Yahaba-kun admires me," Oikawa replies airily. "As you should, too."

Makki snorts so hard Oikawa fears for the state of his nasal cavity.

The first week speeds by. Oikawa can feel the beginnings of a routine: classes interrupted by lunch, followed by studying followed by dinner followed by work. The only time Oikawa is idle are the minutes between consciousness and sleep; he lays on his futon in the darkness, his hair still damp from his shower, and desperately tries to think of nothing at all. Often, Oikawa is successful, and what he knows next is the annoying blare of the alarm on his phone.

It isn't until the second week of university begins that Oikawa experiences his first twinge of restlessness. He keeps himself busy, to be sure, but his routine isn't as hectic as it had been in high school. He had thrived on the chaos. Without it, he feels the torpor down to his bone marrow. 

"Have you tried exercising?" Mizoguchi asks thoughtfully on Tuesday, when Oikawa comes to work in the earlier than he does any other day of the week. "I was in baseball in high school, but didn't join the team when I went to college. I had this—this itch under my skin that refused to go away no matter how much I slept. Since you were in volleyball, maybe it's the same for you."

"Maybe?" Oikawa begins, prepared to make excuses. Mizoguchi had learned from Oikawa's previous employer that Oikawa had played volleyball in senior high, but this is the first time Mizoguchi has referenced it. Oikawa feels the muscles in his back tense up; he wants to get as far away from the subject as possible. "But I don't feel tired."

"It's a different kind of tired," Mizoguchi continues, not letting Oikawa come up with a lie—any lie—so he can _not talk about it_. "When all you do is study and work, all you work is your mind, and eventually, your brain feels like it's been scraped over by a butter knife. When you exercise, you work your body too, and that tiredness feels... clean."

Despite the panic that wriggles in his stomach, Oikawa recognizes advice when he hears it, and pauses to think about Mizoguchi's words. Truth be told, Oikawa hasn't exercised since Karasuno defeated Aoba Jousai in the spring; maybe he feels so strange because he's used to being much more active. Sure, he walks back and forth from his apartment to campus to work, and is on his feet for most of his shift, but that isn't comparable to his previous lifestyle.

"I'll give it a shot," Oikawa tells Mizoguchi in honesty, to which Mizoguchi nods sagely. Oikawa knows it won't completely erase all the unease he feels—there is nothing in the world that can make his guilt disappear—but maybe, _maybe_ , it will help.

"It certainly made me feel better," Mizoguchi concludes. Then, thankfully moving to another topic, he says, "Now about that new serialization Mattsun recommended stocking..."

.

The next morning, Oikawa wakes up an hour before he normally does. He blinks blearily against the brightness of his cellphone screen and yawns as he crawls out of his futon. Then he dons a pair of lime-green exercise shorts, a white cotton t-shirt, and a pair of athletic high top sneakers he hasn't worn in months. He's out the door in less than five minutes.

Hamada is quiet this early in the morning. The sun has not yet broken the horizon and the streetlights are bright against the lightening pastel sky. Most of the houses Oikawa passes are dark and still; the few windows that glow bright are beacons in the waning night. If it weren't for the two people Oikawa passes on his circuit—a garbage collector and a middle-aged businessman walking a very small and very fluffy dog that yaps at Oikawa's ankles—Oikawa could almost convince himself that he is alone in the city.

Oikawa runs until his lungs and legs burn, and he is genuinely surprised when he returns to his apartment only twenty minutes after he left. He has always had good stamina; to find out that he can't even jog for half an hour makes something inside his chest clench. His old coach had always said told the team that if they slacked off over their vacations they would regret it, but Oikawa had never fully comprehended the sentiment until now.

_How does it go away so quickly?_ Oikawa thinks bitterly as he stands beneath the shower head. He has turned the water up higher than he normally does. The sting feels good on his skin, even though it does nothing to wash away the roil in gut. _Does this mean I can't—_

Oikawa stops that train of thought. It doesn't matter what he can or cannot do anymore, if his serves and tosses are or are not as accurate or powerful as they used to be. His skills are an expired currency, and his career in volleyball is in the past. His hands turn to fists where he has braced himself against the wall. His nails bite into the flesh of his palms.

"It doesn't matter," Oikawa repeats aloud, trying to not stutter. His voice does not echo in the small stall, and the words fall like water to his feet, hitting the tile and disappearing down the drain. "It doesn't matter."

Despite how Oikawa's athletic abilities measure up, Oikawa decides to keep at it. He may not be happy about the duration of his run, but he is satisfied by the run itself. His muscles recognize the pleasant ache, and they are sated, if incompletely; his body seems to know that his run should be a warm-up, that he should be finishing his routine with spikes and sets and serves. Maybe Oikawa should start to weight lift again, too.

"I always hated running," Makki says when Oikawa tells him about his idea later that day. "But if you want a spotter or a gym buddy to do reps with, count me in. There's an exercise center here on campus that's free for students. I heard it's decent."

Oikawa feels a wide smile stretch his face. He had not expected to make any friends when he moved to Hamada—had expected, maybe, to maintain the same careful distance he had with his high school classmates and old co-workers—but Makki had blown past those tentative borders. Oikawa is grateful for Makki, and when he says, "Thank you," he means, "Thank you for everything."

"No problem," Makki says.

.

Aoba Jousai was known in the Miyagi prefecture for being a sports oriented high school. Oikawa had gone because they had a good volleyball program—and because he knew Ushijima had decided on Shiratorizawa—but many others went there too: for baseball, for track and field, for for tennis, for soccer. Oikawa is used new and well-maintained equipment, wide practice areas, and clean locker rooms.

The on-campus gym is a three-story monster on the north end of campus, however, leaves Oikawa wide-eyed.

Hamada University's exercise center has two indoor tracks, two basketball courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, several tiny rooms reserved for racquetball, and a huge climbing wall. There are dozens of treadmills and ellipticals, an enormous section dedicated to free weights, and a padded room that could be used for wrestling or yoga. There are outdoor tennis and volleyball courts, the latter of which Oikawa carefully does not think about.

(For a moment, his hands itch. He remembers the phantom sting of a powerful serve, the gentle brush of synthetic leather against his fingertips—but a captain who let down his team does not deserve to act like nothing happened, and he ignores the rush of want that courses through him.)

"Well," Oikawa mocks, recalling Makki's earlier statement. "It's decent."

"Shut up," says Makki. He is glancing around with a blank expression on his fact, which is Makki's equivalent at gaping. "I told you what I heard, not what I knew."

They wander around the enormous center before finding an open spot by the arm weights. Oikawa picks up the weight he used in high school, which is a mistake; after just one repetition, his muscles begin to tremble. He feels heat rise to his cheeks and turns his gaze to Makki, a quip on his tongue to hide the sting of embarrassment he feels.

Makki, however, is having the same problem.

"Damn," Makki mumbles, setting his weight on the floor and rolling his shoulders. His face is as red as his hair. "This was easier in high school."

They look sheepishly at each other, commiserating, before they burst out laughing—Oikawa quite loudly, Makki in small huffs—and Oikawa's embarrassment vanishes. He is once again grateful to have Makki as a friend. Without him, Oikawa would have been caught up inside his own head and would have convinced himself that everyone was watching him fail; with him, Oikawa shakes it off before it can take root, and goes to switch his weights with lighter ones.

Oikawa exercises for the next hour, working separate muscle groups, while Makki keeps pace beside him. Makki must have been an athlete in high school too; Oikawa briefly thinks about asking him what he played, then dismisses the idea. He doesn't want to lie to Makki, almost as much as he doesn't want to talk about volleyball. Instead, they talk about other things: school, work, how Mattsun would only eat instant noodle bowls and packaged snacks if Makki didn't know how to cook.

"Same time tomorrow?" Oikawa asks once they've finished, raking a pleasantly scratchy towel through his hair. The showers in the locker rooms are incredibly nice, semi-private stalls that have good pressure and get hot very quickly.

"Yeah," Makki agrees. "Same time tomorrow."

.

Oikawa's new exercise regime fits neatly into his schedule. His morning run takes more out of him than he would like, especially when he compares his current stamina to the stamina he had in high school. Otherwise, his strength returns much more quickly; he is constantly sore, but he knows that it will eventually pass. Besides, the ache is worth the disappearance of his restlessness. Oikawa will have to thank Mizoguchi for his advice someday, when no one else might overhear if the topic strays to volleyball.

After several sessions, however, Oikawa becomes aware of the fact that he is constantly surrounded by athletes. Some people exercise for the sake of exercise, like Oikawa and Makki, but most use it as a tool. It seems that everywhere Oikawa turns, he sees a jersey or a t-shirt proclaiming allegiance to some sport with cracked screen-printing. 

Hamada isn't a university well-known for its athletic clubs—Oikawa had checked, when he was applying—but it still had them. Volleyball isn't nearly as popular as baseball or soccer, either, but they still had a men's team and a women's team that Oikawa sometimes spots walking through the exercise center. He always ducks his head and turns away, praying that no one looks over. It might be egotistical of Oikawa to believe that someone will recognize him, but all it takes is one person to knock down Oikawa's new and precarious identity.

Oikawa is so focused on avoiding the people who are already part of the team that he is blind-sided when, late one night, Makki says, "I wish I could join a club."

Makki is sitting behind the cash register, flipping through a magazine he pulled from the rack behind him. Oikawa had glanced at it earlier and saw that Makki was reading about a famous pop group's recent split. Oikawa cannot decide if Makki is genuinely interested in the article or bored out of his skull.

"Oh?" Oikawa pauses in stocking the front with various impulse buys, dread building in his gut. Makki sounds vaguely wistful which, for Makki, is depressingly melancholy on anyone else. "What club would you join?"

"Volleyball," Makki replies easily.

Oikawa's head snaps up from the plethora of bagged candies to Makki. His breath catches in his throat and the muscles in his shoulders tense, but Makki isn't looking at him with blame in eyes. In fact, he isn't looking at Oikawa at all.

"I played all through junior high and high school. Issei was on my team. Yahaba too—he's the captain this year," Makki continues, gazing into the middle distance. Makki, Mattsun, and Yahaba make up a third of the convenience store's staff, a percentage that Oikawa is extremely uncomfortable with. "Our team wasn't the best and our coach was rough on us, but it was always fun."

_Fun,_ Oikawa thinks as he forces himself to relax. His knuckles are white and he has crushed a package of innocent gum in his tight grip. Luckily, Makki is lost in memory and oblivious to Oikawa's unnatural stillness. _What's fun about losing?_

Oikawa doesn't say this. Instead, he asks with careful casualness, "Then why not join?"

"Eh," Makki replies, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. "I don't have the time for it."

For a moment, Oikawa is seized by endless envy. How nice it must be, to have played volleyball and be able to set it aside easily, to be able to talk about it without choking shame, to not be a _failure_.

"What about you?" Makki asks. "Were you in any clubs?"

Oikawa breathes out and out and out. He uncurls his fingers from the package he's crushed and lets go of his jealousy as he drops the mashed product back into its box, to mark it out later as damaged. Makki's question is a simple one, and there is nothing accusatory about his tone. Still, it would be stupid for Oikawa to tell Makki that he had once played volleyball too, given how easy it is to find him on the internet. A quick search under his name will bring up his entire career, from its start at Kitagawa Daiichi to its end at Aoba Jousai, and will display a hundred photos, videos, and interviews. His awards and his victories mean nothing when compared to his inability to bring his team to nationals, and Oikawa can't stand the idea of another person judging him for his inadequacy, least of all Makki.

"No," Oikawa says, trying to keep his voice as even and nonchalant as possible. He isn't sure how well he manages it while his heart thunders in his chest. "I was too popular to be part of a club."

The lie is a gamble. Oikawa hadn't paid much attention to teams outside of his prefecture—especially not when he had to worry about Shiratorizawa and, by some sadistic twist of fate, Karasuno—and it's likely that Makki has never heard of Aoba Jousai.

No one pays attention to the schools that don't go to nationals, after all.

Makki snorts. "Of course you were," he drawls sarcastically. "Three weeks into the semester, and I've already had more girls approach me asking for your number than I ever have for mine."

With an opening like that, it's simple for Oikawa to change the subject. Makki doesn't really care about girls—Oikawa is fairly certain that Makki's friendship with Mattsun has added benefits—and always seems baffled by Oikawa's popularity. Oikawa takes advantage of this now, and prompts Makki to tell him precisely _why_ he thinks Oikawa shouldn't be popular.

Makki is easily persuaded.

Yet despite the smooth segue, Oikawa is on edge for the rest of the night. He is sure that Makki is going to bring up volleyball again or call Oikawa out on his sour-tasting lie. Maybe Mizoguchi once told Makki that Oikawa used to play volleyball, and Makki has just forgotten—maybe Oikawa's falsehood will sit wrong in the back of Makki's mind until he suddenly remembers Mizoguchi's off-handed comments, and confront Oikawa—or maybe Mizoguchi never told Makki anything, but he told Mattsun, or Yahaba, or Watari, or Kyoutani—maybe it's only a matter of time before someone figures it out.

This paranoia follows Oikawa home. It clings to his back as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and sits heavily on his chest when he lies down on his unrolled futon. He tosses and he turns, unable to settle, unable to breath, wondering again and again, _Did I come all this way for nothing?_

Sleep comes eventually. The answer to Oikawa's question does not.


End file.
